


That Will Be Enough

by Skalidra



Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [1]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Intersex, M/M, Omega Marco, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: It's after his first visit to her husband that Chabi truly meets the new Latin boy, Marco Polo. Reeking of her husband, and his fear, and a simple corridor away from exposing those vulnerabilities to the rest of the Court. As unused to their ways as he is, she can't simply leave him to the mercies of the rest of the Court. Not until he knows how to defend himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so this is going to make no sense to anybody but just like... bear with me here. So, I watched Marco Polo fairly recently. And because of some conversation turns with theLiterator, we got talking about how Marco Polo would translate to an A/B/O universe. And oh man, does it. (Little foreign omega gifted to a much more liberal society, as property of the Khan? Becoming more and more of a warrior and less of a Venetian/Christian style omega? Sign me _up_.)
> 
> So yes, I now have three bits of a connected series of ABO Marco Polo; involving Chabi, Kublai, and Ahmad/Marco. I don't expect anyone to actually read this, but I had lots of fun so whatever. If you do, enjoy!

He is terrified, and she can see it in his face, smell it in his scent, mixed so with the smells of sex and her husband. He is tense beneath the touch of her hand on his arm, but unresisting as she pulls him from the corridor before her husband's rooms, before he can enter the main court, and those lingering in it, and bare his vulnerability for all to see.

She does not command him to come, and yet he obeys. His scent only grows stronger, but she ignores it until she has clicked the door shut behind them, and purposefully bolted the door, so none may interrupt. Only then does she turn to him where he stands a few feet away, gaze downcast but darting upwards to glance at her, wide and expressive in ways he cannot afford to be.

She folds her hands in front of her, studying him. There is the edge of a bruise extending from below the collar of his clothes, barely visible, and unnoticeable if his scent did not broadcast its presence as clearly as though he were not clothed at all. He is frozen still beneath her gaze, but she recognizes what her husband has seen in him below that. Not this stricken fear, but the exotic beauty of his features, and what she has heard so far of his voice, though now it seems gone as well.

"Bare your torso to me," she commands, once she has taken his measure. Another sharp swell of scent, but she does not offer comfort, not yet.

His fingers are slow when they loosen the ties of his clothing, and hesitant when they push the fabric off his shoulders, to let it drop to the ground. His chest, as expected, bears the marks of her husband. A few soft bite marks, and small patches of bruises sucked to the surface; she expects there are more on his thighs, and the backs of his shoulders. She did not need them to know what her husband has done, but the marks left tell her the story of how the encounter went. There are no bruises on his waist, or wrists; it was not necessary to hold him down.

She moves forward, and he ceases to breathe as she reaches out and trails fingers over his chest, up to the shadowing of the bruise low on his throat. The only bruise that ventured that high, as far as she can see.

She draws her fingers away. "This is not what you expected, is it, child?"

His gaze rises again, and she can see the answer brewing on his tongue, see the words slip up his throat before he swallows them down again. Moments longer as he considers a different answer, chooses his words. She wonders if that is his home's culture, to make him watch his words, or if he is learning not to let his tongue run away with him in the presence of those with the authority to discipline him for it.

"Apologies, my Empress," he starts, gaze lowered, the turn of his throat and openness of his arms all silent submission. "There are many possibilities and I am unsure what precisely you are referring to."

She raises an eyebrow. "Do not lie to me, boy," she commands, and he flinches. "You do not know our ways, that is clear as day. You did not expect to be taken, did you?"

“No,” he admits, after several long moments. “Well, yes, but not to be… released again.”

“The Khan takes what he desires,” she says, stating the fact simply enough. “His appetites are large, and I have no interest in being the only one to sate them. This is accepted; I assume it is not the same in your world, foreigner?”

The flicker of his expression — shame, guilt, almost a sort of grief — tells her plainly enough that it is not. Still, she waits for him to say, “No, my Empress. In my culture we are… prized. Kept pure that we may serve only the one we mate, and be theirs alone.”

How… terrible. To be kept from life, from pleasure, from the _satisfaction_ of being sated when the urges come. There are those kept from the pleasures of sex, but only for the sake of not allowing the chance for a child to be conceived. They are not denied pleasure in its entirety. What a level of shame must be in this child’s bones, to keep him from such. And what a level of fear, to allow her husband to take such hard kept purity without struggling.

“Did you tell my husband this?”

A small shiver. “He knew that I was… untouched. He did not ask for the reasons and I did not offer them. It seemed pointless, my Empress.”

“Perhaps.” She extends a hand, sliding fingers beneath his chin and raising it, so he will meet her eyes. “Do you not believe we are prized, boy? If you are so valuable to your own people in comparison, why were you left here? Your father knows of our ways; he did not sell you to this blindly.”

She has struck true, and she watches his eyes flicker away, _pain_ light them from within, and grief. These nerves are still raw, still laid bare and perhaps even already damaged from her husband’s attention, though she knows that he has no taste for emotional torture in the bedroom. The boy has been deeply wounded by his own family, and that leaves him exquisitely vulnerable. Dangerously so, when paired with his physical vulnerabilities as well.

“You do not have to answer that,” she allows, sliding her fingers sideways to cup his jaw, keeping one thumb hooked beneath his chin to keep it raised. “My husband has taken an interest in you, so you will learn to serve and please him, as you would a true mate. What he requests, you will obey. What he wants, you will give. Do you understand?”

“As you wish, my Empress,” the boy says, but his words come hollow.

At least he is aware of his place.

She gives a restrained sigh, and places her other hand on the boy’s chest, to feel the rapid flutter of his heart beneath the skin. She is tempted to release him, to send him out into that world as he is, but she cannot. The boy is wounded, hurting, and if she allows him back into the court in this condition he will be passed from one alpha to the next until they tire with him, and he will allow it. He does not know better.

“Come with me,” she commands, letting her hands slip away as she brushes past him. She does not offer explanation, and he does not ask for it.

He follows at her heels, and she leads him deeper into her rooms, to the bathing area set aside for her use, connected to an outside pool. His expression is bare to read as she bids him to strip out of the remainder of his clothes, and step into the water. It’s cool, but he doesn’t complain. Nor does he complain when she kneels at his back, pressing at the tops of his shoulders to make him sit on the built-in ledges within the pool, careful to avoid the marks scattered across his upper back.

She presses her thumbs to either side of his spine, working her fingers into the lean muscle of him and up the back of his neck, as it bows beneath her touch. His scent is less overpowering now, still frightened, but not as terrified. That is better, although not enough.

“Listen well, child,” she says. “You will have no protection from the Khan. You are enjoyed by him, owned by him, but you are not _his_ as are the members of his harem. You must defend yourself.”

She can feel the tremble that shakes him, before he breathes, “I do not know how, Empress. It is not— It is not a skill that my culture teaches to those of our gender.”

Her hands pause, and she raises her gaze to the ceiling. Denied touch, and pleasure, _and_ the ability to defend themselves. She would never wish to visit a culture who stripped half their population of their sense of independence. She has seen that this boy is clever, and if he were to use that to its potential, he could wield quite a bit of power. If he knew how to play any of their games.

“I will make sure you are taught,” she promises, as she slides her hands back down to his shoulders. “You are a foreign beauty, boy. There are many who will wish to taste you, and if you do not deny them, they will. None will dare to mate you, but we do not value purity as your culture does. If you allow yourself to be taken, that shall simply be what it is. Those omegas who are selective about their partners are those that are respected as great prizes, however, and if you wish to succeed in this court the first step is to be respected.”

“How?” he asks, something broken to his tone.

She releases his shoulders, before giving him a light shove. “You can _start_ by not reeking quite so thoroughly of my husband, and of your fear.” He turns to look at her, wide eyes ashamed, cheeks flushing in something like embarrassment. “The next time he calls for you, ask to bathe before you leave his rooms,” she commands. “If you had walked out there smelling as you do, you would not even have been able to cross the throne room without being taken. You must be _aware_ of the image you present, boy.”

A flick of her fingers directs his attention to the bathing implements set beside the pool, towards one corner. “Clean yourself up; be thorough, or I will do it myself.” His head dips, and she watches him move, watches the slight stiffness to his back as he obeys. “Were you hurt?” she asks after a few minutes, and the flush that darkens his cheeks is rather enticing, wide-gaze meeting hers for only a fraction of a second before it fixes upon the tiled floor.

“No, Empress,” he murmurs, clearly shying from the topic. “He was… very kind, in ways he did not have to be.”

“Good.” She would have had to speak to her husband if he had been anything less; pleasure is the only acceptable outcome with someone as foreign to their ways as Marco is, and the boy has sacrificed quite a bit to them already. Much of it was not even his choice. That deserves to be repaid.

She watches him clean himself, the pass of his hands — long, pale fingers; not entirely weak, but relatively fragile — over marked skin, and then the faint tremble as they dip lower. There is no wince, no expression to betray any sort of discomfort, although the flush lingers. The shame is clear to read, and she swallows another sigh. He will never survive here if he reacts so poorly to the idea or practicalities of sex.

He sets aside the soap, and she watches him as he rinses his hair as well, fingers combing through the tangled curls. Then, when he idles, she taps her nails against the tile to draw his attention.

“Come here,” she orders, though she keeps her voice soft. Scaring the boy is not her intent; he’s frightened enough already.

He approaches her, nervous but still obedient, and she extends a hand in offering. There is a moment of hesitation, but he takes it, and she pulls him from the bath. He is left to stand still, head lowered, shoulders curled inwards but not quite blatantly ashamed enough to shield himself with his hands, as she crosses the room to collect a cloth to dry him. After a moment, and with a small twist of her heart, she selects the largest, softest one that is set amongst the others. The boy does not need to be spoiled, but he could do with reassurance.

He could also do with a lesson on pleasure, from one more sensitive to his turmoil than her husband.

She pulls the cloth around his shoulders, and lets him gather it around his form, until he is covered from his neck down all the way to his knees. It is easy enough to guide him to dry himself, and then to follow her back into her main rooms, and down onto a lounge piled high with pillows. He is tense again, but still does not resist her gathering him to lie beside where she sits, pulling his head to her chest and sliding fingers through his damp hair.

“Relax, child,” she murmurs, as she touches his chest with her other hand, parting the folds of the cloth to bare his skin. “I will not harm you.” He gasps against her dress, trembling as her hand slips down to the warmth between his thighs, easing them open with the pressure of fingers.

“I— _Empress_ …”

There is helpless denial in his voice, and she strokes his scalp as she eases her fingers down to the heat of him, circling the entrance with gentle fingertips. She can feel his thighs tense, feel his breath catch beneath her touch. One finger meets slight dampness, and she eases it inside of him with little resistance, watching the arch of his back and the part of his mouth. He is a _responsive_ one, certainly.

“You must let go of your shame,” she murmurs, pushing a second finger inside the wet, welcoming folds of him. Still open from her husband’s attentions. “It will not serve you here. Why do you believe the natural reactions of your body are something you should be guilty of, child?”

He shivers, eyes squeezing shut. “It is a _sin_ ,” he finally gasps, voice breathless, his accent strengthened due to his distress. “To— To indulge in pleasure without a mate is a _sin_ , by my religion.”

Her gaze lingers on that silver crucifix hanging against his chest, and she has the urge to rip it from him. She will not, but this religion cripples him, and she can see he will not survive if he continues to allow it to. It should not be a concern of hers. Either he will harden, and learn to live in their court, or he will fall from favor and his father will take whatever remains when he is returned.

“You must shed that,” she tells him, voice as gentle as the coaxing slide of her fingers. “This is no place for your religion.”

She can feel him tense against her, feel the way his jaw sets before he grits out, “ _All_ religions are welcome in the court of the Khan.”

“Welcome,” she agrees, “but not respected. You are part of the court now, child, and they will treat you as such. If you cannot meet blade with blade, you will lose yourself to them, and they will not care how sinful you believe such acts to be.”

The boy shudders and she pushes her fingers deep within him, curling through the clutching wetness to reach places that will bring him far faster to release. He arches when she does, a gasping cry escaping him, and she finds her mouth curling to a smile. The boy deserves pleasure, no matter how unwilling to accept it he seems to be. He deserves to enjoy at least one part of this, and not all who would taste him will be as kind.

“I— I do not want—” His voice is breaking, a hand pressing down against her thigh, the other gripping a pillow tight enough to turn his knuckles bloodless and pale.

“I know,” she soothes, curling her fingers in his hair and pulling lightly, encouraging him to arch and bare his throat. “You will learn how to deny them, child.”

Faced with the curve of that pale throat, her fingers slip downwards, curling around it to hold him. She can feel his throat working beneath her palm, and feels the whine that builds in his throat before she hears it. He trembles against her, and now the fear has eased from his scent, replaced with the richer tones of desire. She caresses the skin of his neck, pressing her thumb in against his windpipe to make his breath catch, letting her fingers drift up to skirt at the bottom of his ear, close enough to the scent gland behind it to make him _jerk_.

He tightens around her, bucking upwards into her hand as he gives a startled, slightly breathless cry. He speaks then in a language she doesn’t understand, tone implying a plea as his voice rises and falls, fingers clenching down in the fabric of her dress. She presses into that weakness, curls and rubs against it until he shakes and cries out something she can only translate as a call for his God. The words are unfamiliar, but the contraction and release of his body is known to her; she has trained and taught dozens of omegas before him.

His hips rise and fall, pulse pounding beneath her fingers, until he goes lax against her. Carefully she eases the fingers from inside him, cradling him close as he breathes in shuddering gasps, quiet but strained. She lets her hand slip up to grip his jaw, to tilt it so she can rest her other fingers against his bottom lip. A shiver, a small whine that comes breathless and pleading.

“Hush,” she commands, sliding the fingers against his lip again and leaving a trail of wetness in their path. His own. “Your life is ours, child. Serve, as you are meant to.”

His mouth parts, and it may be to speak, it may be to shout, but she takes the advantage it offers. She slides her fingers within his mouth, pressing his tongue down for a moment before allowing it to slip free. He exhales around them, legs drawing closed, thighs rubbing together, but then closes his mouth. He licks her fingers clean, and she is secure enough in his obedience that she releases his jaw to pet his hair instead.

When she is satisfied she withdraws her fingers. He rests against her chest, and she guides him backwards with her, until she is more reclined and he is curled against her, his head at her shoulder. His hair is still damp, and she combs through it as his breathing evens and slows. Her other hand she lowers, tracing down his chest until it can rest lightly against his stomach.

“My husband,” she begins, speaking softly so as not to frighten the boy all over again, “he spent inside you, I assume?”

A flicker of tension, but she hums a soft note and he relaxes again. “Yes, Empress,” he answers, voice thickly accented but once again in the right language. “If… If I—”

“It is a great honor,” she preempts. “To carry the Khan’s child will give you high status, even as a foreigner. You should pray that his seed takes; it will protect you far more efficiently than even the best of training.” She rubs her hand over his stomach. “If you do, you will be cared for, treated with respect by all, and the Khan will claim you as one of his own. It is the best outcome for you.”

The boy is silent for several long moments. His voice is laced with grief when he says, “It is not what I want, Empress.”

She could make him look at her, but instead she grants him a small kindness, allowing him to keep his face turned from hers where she can only see the edge of his expression. “I know, child. But your plans for your own life have not mattered since the minute you were given to us. You must set them aside; focus on what you can achieve here. Or resign yourself to being no more than a foreign toy for those of the court. That decision is yours.”

The boy jerks from her, lacking in grace as he pulls sharply away, hands scrabbling for stable ground among the pillows as he faces her. “ _No_ ,” he spits, eyes lit with a spark of fear, voice sharp with it. “No, I will _not_.”

She pushes up. “Then learn,” she commands. “ _Adapt_. This is not your world, boy, and you will _not_ survive in it if you continue to act as though it is.” It is too easy to shove him to his back with one foot before she rises herself, towering over where he lies. “Make your decision; I will not waste time on a child doomed to failure.”

Something slides into his expression, some slight hardness that makes him look directly up at her, fingers curled in the pillows, muscle tensed to run, but still lying open, his chin slightly lifted to bare his throat. A fascinating mix of resilience and submissiveness, even as his thighs press tight together in denial. A challenge wrapped in obedience, and she very much doubts he means for it to look like that.

“Then you believe I can succeed?” he hedges, and she identifies that hardness as calculation. The boy _is_ clever, despite whatever his culture has done to him.

She does not offer him an answer, does not offer him reassurance. He must learn to live without it; he cannot hang on the approval of others.

He shifts, uncertain again, before his fingers curl tighter, jaw setting together. “I will learn,” he concedes, gaze lowered before it rises again to meet hers. He is still frightened, but he is at least willing to try, and that is enough for now.

She nods approval, then lets her gaze flicker over him before she releases a soft sigh. “You do not know the image you are presenting, do you, child?” The flicker of confusion is answer enough. “You cannot show both submission and challenge; it will draw them to you like moths to a flame. If you mean to deny them, challenge. If you desire them as they desire you, submit.” She extends a foot, pushing it between his knees and parting his legs with a push. They tremble, but he doesn’t stop her. “Show me how you submit, child.”

He is stiff as he exhales, head turning away, thighs parting a little further, gaze lowered to the floor. It may be the most reluctant thing she has ever seen.

She sinks down, kneeling to the side of his hips. “Not as if you were facing execution,” she reprimands, gently. “Close your eyes.” He does, and she lowers a hand to rest on his stomach, sliding her fingers downwards. She avoids the weight of him for now, bypassing it to lower her fingers down between his thighs and ease two back inside him. He shudders, mouth parting in a small gasp, but doesn’t fight her.

“Imagine someone you desire above you, strong and fit. His scent in your nose, his body laid out above you but not touching, except for the breadth of his fingers in you.” His scent swells, a flush darkening his cheeks, his eyes still obediently closed. “He is watching you, desiring you, _hungry_ for you. _Submit_ to him.”

The boy gives a soft gasp, and she smiles as he eases into obedience. His fingers loosen their grips on the pillows, his head tilts back to bare the arch of his throat, his thighs part wide enough to welcome someone between them. The soft curve of his back emphasizes it, and he is warm, wet, willing in a way he certainly didn’t show before. She extends her other hand, clasping it around his throat and squeezing just tight enough to encourage that submission, keeping the pressure as her fingers pull out. He gives a soft whine, hips tilting upwards as if in expectation of being actually taken.

She lets him go.

His eyes flicker open, looking up at her, and there’s a faint haze to his gaze, before he shakes it clear. The flush darkens, but he holds her gaze this time even though his expression says he’d prefer to hide his face. Probably the rest of him as well. He still doesn’t draw away when she raises a hand to brush the curls away from his face, letting her fingers linger there.

“You are very sweet, child,” she murmurs. “What I will do, I do to improve you. Do you understand?” He nods, hesitantly. “Good. Tomorrow, you will be paired with an instructor. You will come back here every day for the next week, once he is through with you, and I will teach you how to please. My scent will keep most away from you, until you are ready to defend yourself.”

He doesn’t like the idea, and that’s clear, but he lowers his gaze in acceptance anyway, and murmurs, “Yes, Empress.” A moment passes, before he haltingly asks, “And… what if I cannot? There will always be those more skilled than me, always—”

“If you lack desire, and the skill to tell them such, then be a cornered animal, child. Claw. Bite. Make them bleed. Do what you must to convince them you are not worth the injuries you will inflict.”

He winces, draws in, voice lowering as he speaks a practiced set of words clearly repeated to him many times. “That is not proper behavior for a—”

She raises an eyebrow.

He swallows, and then meets her gaze and promises, wavering, “I will try.”

“For now,” she grants, slipping fingers through his hair, “that will be enough.”


End file.
